“You’ll hear that vice versa, too, but I’d put more credulity in the spy being inside Brooks. Old man Tiener was that kind of operator — turn any trick, clip any corner for gain, or sometimes just for fun. I hear he liked to hear people howl.
“Okay, you want to put Burns, a longtime Brooks employee, in the role of being a spy for Tiener? Be my guest. Or Singleton in that role for Brooks at Tiener’s? Again be my guest. It’s all possible.”
“They were found dead side by side on swamp land that once was a high prize. What would you say that means, Sol?”
“That, Shayne, is for detectives to figure out,” Pearbome replied significantly.
IV
Brooks and Associates occupied the seventh floor of a gleaming building in middle Miami. The floor was a posh and dimly cool oasis out of the mid-afternoon heat. Shayne was given a Mr. Morgan, who professed to know most things transpiring at Brooks and Associates.
Mr. Morgan had twenty spare minutes. He was due on the first tee at 4:30 p.m.
Mr. Morgan also said that Brooks and Associates were saddened and disturbed by the double murder, especially the loss of Mr. Burns. Mr. Burns had been a valued and trusted employee. There had already been a discreet inner office investigation of Mr. Burns’ accounts and everything was in proper order as expected.
“You people scored one, I guess, with the recent purchase of a swamp,” said Shayne.
“It was a coup, Mr. Shayne!” Mr. Morgan, fingered a pencil moustache that had been out of style for ten years.
“The same swamp where Bums died.”
“Well, yes.”
“But Burns wasn’t involved in the swamp transaction.”
“No.”
“How about Singleton over at Tiener South?”
Mr. Morgan became cool. “We are not acquainted with Mr. Singleton or his work. We do not understand why Mr. Bums and Mr. Singleton were found as they—”
“It’s my understanding,” Shayne interrupted, “that Tiener South was in the saddle on the swamp purchase, then you people got a hand in at the last minute.”
“That happens,” Mr. Morgan nodded.
“With outside information, I assume.”
Mr. Morgan became stone.
“Where did you get that information, Mr. Morgan? In this case, from Singleton? The guy was about to retire. Maybe he was after a little extra cushion.”
“I think, Mr. Shayne, I am expected at the country club sooner than—”
“What was Bums working on last week?”
The abrupt switch in focus briefly jarred Mr. Morgan. He stirred in his chair, reached for a pen that wasn’t there, then settled back and restroked the pencil moustache. He frowned. “If you must know,” he said, “Mr. Bums has been in Hawaii for the most part of the last six weeks. We have a transaction in progress. Mr. Burns has been handling that transaction — almost solely.”
“So he wouldn’t have been aware of the swamp deal?” the detective asked.
“There is no reason he would have been.”
“He wouldn’t have any contact with Singleton?”
“Not unless they knew one another socially.”
“They didn’t.”
Mr. Morgan lifted both hands in a helpless gesture. He had regained his confidence.
“Burns is above suspicion?”
Morgan immediately frowned. “Suspicion of what? I told you, Mr. Shayne, we already have conducted—”
“Have you people ever suspected you might have a spy in your midst, someone who kept the competition informed about various transactions here?”
Mr. Morgan seemed shocked. “Good God, that’s absurd thinking!”
“Could be,” agreed Shayne with a jerky nod. “Unless you happen to be looking for a reason two land men are found dead together in a swamp.”
Morgan sat with his mouth hanging open.
“Singleton, an employee at Tiener South, didn’t just happen to be keeping an ear to the ground for you people over there, did he?”
“That’s all!” Morgan shot to his feet behind the polished desk. The pencil mustache quivered. “This interview is terminated!”
Shayne stood, too, eyed Morgan hard. “Pal,” he said, “if Burns and Singleton were spies, or double agents, or guys who’d occasionally sell out for a few bills, I could have a possible tie for their being found dead together in a swamp — right?”
Morgan’s cheeks had deepened in color. His stare was piercing. He curled a comer of his mouth and snapped, “Pursue that absurd line of thinking, Mr. Shayne, cast a shadow on Brooks and Associates, and you are on very dangerous ground!”
Shayne cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve got a short fuse, Morgan,” he said.
He strode out of Brooks and Associates. Thirty minutes later, he was inside Tiener South, another opulent oasis. There was hurry-scurry also inside Tiener South, handled with soft tones of voice and quick footsteps that were soundless upon thick carpeting.
But Shayne’s practiced eye noted that was where the similarities between Brooks and Associates and Tiener South ended.
Brooks had been rich in polished dark paneling and gleaming dark desk fronts, dark plants and paintings, brass wall decorations and ornaments, efficient employees in conservative dress and pampered gray-black hair.
Tiener South, on the other hand, was open, airy, colorful. Bright colors prevailed on walls, floors, appointments and in the dress of most of the scurriers. Hair coloring did not include gray. Wigs or artifical coloring covered or fashionable pure white prevailed.
Shayne towered over one of the predominantly yellow blondes who was vivaciously cute in brilliant purple pantsuit as she sat at a white typewriter behind a small, bright-orange desk.
“Hi,” she said perkily. “My name is Carole Ayers. What can I do for you?”
Tim Rourke, who had an affinity for blondes, would have been shuffling around with ants under his toes. Shayne didn’t shuffle, but he turned on a crooked grin. The blonde was infectious.
“Want to see someone, honey, who will talk to me about your Mr. Singleton who was found dead in a swamp this morning,” the redhead said bluntly, purposely exuding casualness.
The blonde was a test. Had Singleton’s murder rocked Tiener South? Or had it been worth little more than ten minutes of excited rap over a can of cola and then put aside for more important things — like the next appearance of Bob Dylan in the city.
Light blue eyes brightened. “Wow! You, too? You’re another pi... er, police detective? We’ve been invaded today. Old Singie goes out and gets blown away and—”
“I’m a private investigator,” Shayne interrupted. “Point me to the inner sanctum. I can see this is Cola and Dylan territory.”
The blonde head became cocked in pure curiosity. “Cola and Dylan? I’m not on that wave length, Red. You want to lay a little explanation on me?”
“I’d rather hear about Old Singie.”
“Cute, but Dullsville,” said the blonde with a slight shrug. “I’ve heard he was born in 1776 with a flag in his hand. If he was, it’s too bad he had to get hi own away just after the big birthday party, don’t you think?”
“Un-huh,” agreed Shayne.
“But Singie was okay,” said the blonde. “Don’t misunderstand.”
“Some age here and there is tolerable, I guess.”
“Well, sure!” The blonde brightened again. “Now, take you, Red. You’re—”
“I’m ageless, honey. These lines on my face represent miles. How come Singie was okay?”
“Well...” She seemed to ponder. “I didn’t know him, understand, But... well, he was just okay! Did his thing and let other people do theirs. No coming on heavy with the scorn — like young people don’t know sh... er, things, are dumb.”